


Folk Song

by fireflies



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M, M/M, Music, artsy babies, folk song, jeanmarco, lots of ironic stuff, most of the characters will be in future chapters, my dream cafe, poetic attempts, songwriter Jean, writer Marco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 23:36:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1365904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireflies/pseuds/fireflies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of two absolutely adorkable artists as they struggle to stay afloat in this world, wading through relationships, pain, good food, money problems, and loneliness.</p><p>Jean and Marco are two hipsters that meet at The Late Owl, a local cafe and artist haven. Jean needs money and more time to pursue his music career, and Marco is just a little lonely as he starts to work in a city he doesn't really know. As the two meet, they instantly click (don't say that in front of Jean, he hates clicking), but they're going to need more than that to survive this blooming relationship. </p><p>Featuring: Road trips and tea and sharing oversized hoodies. Maybe even tears and some angst. Hopefully.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. daydreamer

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, first story here on AO3, hope you like it.  
> To feel warm and fuzzy, listen to this mix as you read. :)
> 
> http://8tracks.com/bon_hiver/deep-breath

 I tumbled out of my Spiderman sheets like a graceless gymnast as my alarm clock trilled  **“Everything is awesome! Everything is cool when you’re part of a team!”**  
  
Hey, don’t judge me. The Lego Movie is fucking incredible.  
  
Little bits of sunlight peeked, like innocent eyes, through the fringe of curtain. My own gritty chocolate orbs wandered over to the digital clock on my nightstand--10 am. Great, The Late Owl should’ve just opened. Hauling myself over to the bathroom, I brushed my teeth and hair, threw on a Finn the Human hoodie and shuffled over to the door of my apartment, grabbing my new, pristine violet Moleskine and its matching Biro on the way. I'd accidentally thrown the old one into the river as I was having a really in depth conversation with my friend, Armin. I mourned it for two weeks, refusing to do anything creative during the time. I know, I know, I'm a big baby.  
  
Stepping out into the crisp autumn air was refreshing and I quickened my pace, worn-out sneakers having a slapping conversation with the cement pavement. My eyes were drawn to the people--what did humans look like on late morning Wednesday? I pulled out the pen and felt the satisfying “click” as the nib slid out.  
  
I scribbled down some bullet points, trying to hide my stare as I walked. The homeless guy over there--he was hunched over, nose crooked, clothes dirty. His eyebrows had a weary slant to them. Useful--and the women in a huddle, in jogging clothes, how did their arms look? Muscular? Skinny? Flabby? It was all so interesting. I felt young, curious about the world and its workings. It continued like this for three blocks, until I reached The Late Owl.  
  
Their slogan was “the early bird gets the worm, but the late owl gets tea, coffee, and pastries.” I loved this place. As soon as I nudged the door open, three tinkly bells announced my presence.  
  
Sasha was serving a dark-haired girl, but didn’t hesitate to call out a “good morning!” behind the teak counter. I Vulcan-saluted her, mouthing “live long and prosper”. She grinned. Sasha always had time to greet her customers--that was what I liked about her. She owned the place, but worked like all her other employees, no exceptions.  
  
The room was filled to the brim with cup-clinking noises, hushed conversations, and an 8tracks indie playlist in the background. I took my favourite spot, the purple beanbag by the Borderlands 2 poster drawn by one of us, one of the artists that hung out here.  
  
The walls were stuffed with picture frames and posters, ranging from sci-fi concept art to Disney stills to anime promotions to video game slogans and even art tutorials. There were quotes roaming all over the room, in bold black typewriter font, and my personal favourite was the one perched near the large window, the one that said “Fire cannot kill a dragon.” by Daenerys Targaryen from A Game of Thrones. I chilled out, sketching faces of the customers as they argued about pointless things. Most of them had hipster glasses, detailed tattoos, or moustaches. I glanced to the eye tutorial on the left wall, pinned up where it was easy to see.  
  
“Hmm...so the eye is wrapped by skin, which makes the upper and lower folds...” I muttered, tapping the pen to my chin, adjusting my sketch. Then I started writing backstory, wondering how the guy I drew was here, why was his face set in the grimace, who the person next to him was--until someone flopped onto the beanbag next to me. I looked up, startled, and stared right at a cute boy.  
  
He had a rose-coloured apron on and newspaper-boy hat stylishly tilted on his light brown undercut. His angular face wore a smirk as he looked back at me, his eyes the colour of a perfectly melted s’more. Delicious.  
  
“Hi, I’m Jean,” he said it like _“szh-ah-n”_ , and I watched as his mouth moved, pronouncing his identity, his personality, his life. How odd that even the simplest of things had so much meaning.  
  
“...and I will be taking your order.” I glanced back up into reality. I didn’t need to look at the board with all the drinks and food listed. I knew what I wanted, it was what I ordered every Wednesday.   
  
“The Latte Owl Wednesday special, please,” and then I grinned at him. He smiled back, a dimple creasing his left cheek. I made a mental note of exactly how it looked as he smiled for later.  
  
I swear, it was just for study!  
  
“Are you new here?” I hadn’t seen him waiting tables in the cafe before today.  
  
“Yeah, I had to get a day job--I’m a singer-songwriter, and it’s tough, yeah.” His lips quirked downward as he said the last “yeah”, and I had to pinch myself and resist the urge to tilt his lips back into a smile.  
  
“You should perform here, then, so we don’t have to play 8tracks mixes all the time.”  
  
“What, me? No. No. I can’t--it’s just, weird, you know? Performing? No.” His eyes shone with a panicked fire, and he was waving his arms around like a doofus.   
  
I punched him playfully, pointing at a spot on the ceiling where I knew held words of wisdom. I’d looked at it a lot, whenever I needed confidence.   
  
Jean looked up, at the quote that shouted “Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”  He stared at it for a while, and slowly, reluctantly, he nodded at me, looking deep in thought.  
  
“OK. Fine. I’ll do that. I'll do that. I’ll ask Sasha about it. Thank you--what’s your name?” He stared intently at me. I felt, almost...self-conscious, like the days of middle school when a look like that would cause gossip to erupt.  
  
“I’m Marco,” I said quietly, rubbing my favourite bunch of freckles, by my knee. I did that when I was thinking, or anxious, or whatever. Whatever.  
  
“Marco. Nice name. Hey, Marco. MarcooOoOoOo. Mark. Oh,” Jean was making weird whale noises, pronouncing my name in as many different ways as possible. His face looked like it had been stung by three bees, it was so weird. I snorted, coughed, and since I couldn’t help it--started laughing in earnest.  
  
“You sound like Dory from Nemo!” I cackled loudly, drawing some attention to my corner. I immediately blushed a dark crimson and shushed myself. Withdrawing into my hoodie, making myself as small as possible to deflect the glances.   
  
“She is my spirit animal,” Jean gasped out dramatically, clutching the right side of his chest. I chuckled softly.  
  
“Your heart is on the left side, you know,” I smirked, waiting for his reaction. Jean’s cheeks coloured slightly, but otherwise he showed no embarrassment. In fact, as loudly as he could, he proclaimed, “Oh, but that’s for most people. And I’m not most people!” His almost-yelling had a melodic quality to it, a sort of husky-ringing-bell-smooth-talking tone that I found kind of, you know.  
 Hot.  
  
After a few seconds he got serious again, and nodded at me.  “I’ll be back with your order in a few minutes, _Maaaarco_. And hey, look.” Jean pulled up his apron, revealing a yellow hoodie underneath printed with what else other than Jake the Dog? I stared down at my own snowy blue Finn the Human hoodie and wondered if we were meant to be best buds. That thought summoned a happy, dorky smile. Jean must’ve thought I was insane, smiling so much. But it was because of him.  
  
As he left to the counter, my thoughts lingered on the fact that there was a single freckle on top of his lip. And that I really wanted to kiss it.


	2. sad sunsets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: a red-scarf-clad girl, crotch coffee, inspirational quotes, and a long, lonely night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read the first chapter like, more than a few hours ago, you might want to re-read it because I did some editing (I didn't like some of the pacing stuff, etc.) It's not too major, though.
> 
> Jean is sitting on a yellow beanbag. Marco's on a purple one. 
> 
> COMPLEMENTARY COLOURS! 
> 
> I'm a sucker for colour-theory-romantic-relationship connections.
> 
> I cannot wait to write further into the story--I have awesome things planned. Hope, hope, hope. Thanks for reading, and please leave a comment if you have anything to...comment on. :D

I didn’t stop wanting to kiss the freckle, but I had to act like I was I was a _bro_ , you know?  
  
The rest of the day passed quite normally, if you count Jean and I talking for an hour about anything and everything to be “normal”. Which I don’t. He’d delivered my latte and promptly sat down on the same yellow bean bag from before, asking if he could maybe sit here, his shift was over? and with that one eyebrow raised and a kind of lost-kitten expression all over his gorgeous face, who could refuse? Certainly not me.  
  
You can tell that I’m kind of smitten with Jean Kirschtein. Now and forever, babe. Now and forever.  
  
He told me his last name, and I told him mine. We had each others’ names, identities, histories, locked in a box somewhere in our heads. I learned that Jean loved pineapples, hated guava, that he used to live in France--he was born there, hence the name--and that his favourite game was Battlefield 4, though after he said that he leaned towards me and whispered: “But really my favourite game of all time is Jazzpunk. It’s just so weird and hilarious and come on, pies that wear monocles? My kind of game.”  
  
And then I snorted with laugher, and coffee came squirting out of my nose, and Jean looked sort of grossed out and amused and he handed me a tissue, then he whispered, once again, in a low tone near my ear. My heart was beating fast, a thud-thud-thud-thud in quick succession. I was expecting something profound and life-changing, but all Jean said was: “Don’t tell anyone. I want to look manly in front of my other friends. Don’t ruin it,” and he winked at me. I couldn’t help thinking that he was awesome. He was loud and self-confident and funny and everything I’ve never really been.  
  
I’m not a mopey, insecure guy. That’s not it at all. But I doubt myself a lot, so even though I can talk to people and make them laugh...I’m scared that one day they’ll all go and I’ll be left in the dust of the ones they’ve already ditched. I never feel good enough. I told Jean so, and he didn’t say anything, he just pointed at the right wall, at the quote above a print of Tamaki Suoh, which said _“Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind.”_  
  
Jean leaned across the table and gave me a real hug, not one of those fake man-hug things, and I thought how nobody had ever given me a meaningful hug before, how they’d patted me on the shoulder or the head or the knee and told me it was OK. No, Jean didn’t care about what society considered “acceptable” and he just pulled me towards him anyway. No words were exchanged, but that made me feel even better. I wouldn’t be able to screw up what I said to him. After a few minutes, he let go, and I could see that his face was slightly dusted with red. Had I embarrassed him?  
  
“Aw, are you embarrassed, Jeany-poo?” I poked at him, and he curled up further into his fluffy Jake hoodie, turning a bit redder. My breath stuttered as he didn’t look up, didn’t talk to me. Had I made him hate me? I didn’t want to be a burden or a cause of suffering. To distract him, I stopped poking him and picked up my Biro. I clicked it, sliding the nib in and out of the pen (oh God, that sounds like pen sex) click. click. click. Jean’s head slowly poked up out of his Jakeskin, like a charmed cobra.  
  
“Staaaaaaaahp. That. Infernal. Noise,” an irritated scowl crossed his face but I kept clicking. I wanted to see how far he would go. He grimaced, clapping his hands over his ears. Click. Snap. Click. Snap. Click. Snap. I could see his fingers curling into a choke-hold. I guess his hands weren’t enough to protect from the noise, and he lunged at me, trying to grab the pen, disturbing the beanbag’s equilibrium. I fell on my butt, and Jean did too, the pen in his hand, with a victorious expression on his face. He started doing a happy hip-shaking dance. As I stared at him, I noticed that my unfinished latte was at the edge of the table, right next to his jeans. Jean’s jeans.  
  
*Much laughter*  
  
Anyway, as I debated whether or not to say something, his Shakira-swaying made him bump into the table and spill the lukewarm coffee all over the blue denim.  
  
“AIEEEEEEEEEEEOHMYGODDAMNSWEETJESUSMOTHEROFTHEDEVIL!” He shrieked, looking down at the spot where the coffee had drenched his pants. Some was running down his leg, even. Yuck.  
  
I couldn’t do anything but laugh at him. Jean scowled at me, muttering and cursing under his breath.    
“You knew, didn’t you? You knew this whole time,” his eyes accused me. They didn’t look seriously angry, though. Just slightly annoyed. Jean pulled out some tissues from his hoodie and mopped up the remainder of the latte that was staining his crotch. I just kept laughing, and his scowl grew deeper and deeper, the lines on his face etching themselves into my memory.  
  
“You’re not even really mad,” I teased, grinning. My dark brown fringe had flip-flopped into my eyes, and I shoved it away.  
  
“It’s the goddamn freckles. All those freckles. You look like a dalmatian, just with freckles, Marco.” The scowl was beginning to lessen, but a few frown creases remained, at the edge of his eyes. It took a lot of willpower to force my hand from not smoothing them and kissing him alright.  
  
Maybe I fell in love with people too quickly. Yes, it was love. At least I thought so. I’d already fallen in love with the different shades of the sky, trees, people’s teeth, their eyebrows during the times when they’d frown or mutter or giggle or cry. I’d fallen in love with my new city, with its beautiful brick buildings. I'd fallen in love with my new life, no matter how lonely it got.  
  
I fall hard, and I fall fast.  
  
So it was all the more devastating to me, only me, when a dark-haired girl with a bright red scarf walked over, tall and pale and kind of intimidating. But when she opened her mouth, her voice was gorgeous. It was dappled leaves in a quiet grove. It was the rustle of autumn. It was soft, virgin kisses behind the rose bushes.  
  
“Hey, nerds,” she said, smiling. I looked up, shocked and kind of angry--who was she to call me a nerd? Why wasn’t Jean looking the least bit disturbed? His arm was casually flung about the table, his body loose and relaxed. The Jean I knew would’ve probably taken at least some offense to a stranger walking up and insulting us! I was about to say something when Jean replied, “Hi there, laffy taffy,” and grinned back at the girl. What?  
  
Jean scooted and patted the spot on the beanbag right next to him, inviting the stranger to sit, then glanced back at me.  
  
“It’s our thing. Our pet names are always candy-related...” The girl turned around, jokingly rolling her eyes.  
  
“...because our relationship is SO sweet.” She grinned at me, a million-watt smile. I wasn’t sure what to feel. Could she be his sister, or cousin, or a good friend? Or was she...  
  
Jean turned to her and gave her a quick peck on the lips.  
  
Yes. She was his girlfriend. My heart shook with two realizations.  
  
1\. Jean was already taken.  
2\. Jean was not, in fact, attracted to men.  
  
Both were just hopes of mine, you know? I had no proof, I was just guessing, assuming, twisting reality to fit my wishes. And reality lets you down almost 99 percent of the time. My eyes started to sting. It was stupid, crying over someone I’d just met an hour ago, but--it’s hard to explain. Whenever I got frustrated, or angry, or worked up, my body thought the best way to release the emotions was to cry, to get rid of them. It made me feel better, it was just a way to deal with feelings, but everyone always thought I was trying to get sympathy.  
  
I felt pathetic, my idealist self felt pathetic.  
  
“I’m Mikasa, by the way. But you can call me Mika,” the girl in the red scarf held her hand up for a high-five. Despite instinctively disliking her, I could not help thinking that that was cool. I half-heartedly slapped her palm with mine.  
  
 “I’m Marco,” I said, taking a deep breath. Mika smiled a full-toothed smile and said she had a nephew named Marco as well. I shrugged, distractedly wondering if he would end up a gay man with a too-breakable heart like me.  
  
“I gotta go, guys. I have some writing commissions I have to work on. See you later.” No one objected to my leaving. I slowly stood up, grabbing my Moleskine and pen, waving at the happy couple, and retreated to the front counter. Sasha was there, talking to her trainee, Reiner. He was buff as hell, but he handed the teacups and coffee mugs with utmost care. I could see Sasha beaming at him, complimenting his work today.  
  
“You’re great in the kitchen, but if you wanna work as a waiter, you gotta learn to talk to people more. You’re like the strong and silent type, I get that, but you should try striking up a conversation,” Sasha evaluated as she munched on a prototype flavour of scone. Reiner took out a clipboard and wrote some stuff down.  
  
“Hey, Sasha, can I get a BLT with two cups of coffee to-go please?” Waving her arm behind the counter, she gave a thumbs up and managed a “coming right up!” with a mouthful of food. I waited, occasionally glancing back at Jean and Mika, watching them giggle over something on Jean’s phone. Even from here, I could see the dimple creasing the corner of his lip. I flipped open my Moleskine to a new page and started sketching Jean’s dimple, Jean’s freckle above his lip, Jean’s tanned hand as best I could, and carefully drew a freckly hand in his grasp. Oh, God. I needed to get back to my apartment, where the loneliness would suffocate me but at least I would be away from someone whom I couldn’t have, where I could work on my writing pieces for video game companies, but I knew I wouldn’t. I knew I’d spend all night sketching Jean, Jean, Jean. And the occasional frog or something.  
  
The steaming food arrived, packed up in a paper bag with a sleepy owl printed on it. I paid, thanked Sasha, and stepped out into late afternoon, beginning the walk home.  
  
Alone.


	3. february three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: A late start, a stupid assumption, a friendship, and a heartfelt song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, what a long chapter. I don't have much of an attention span, and I like to finish chapters in one sitting. What a bad combination of traits. Sorry that the chapter is kind of boring, I want to develop and introduce Marco's life, because he's can survive without Jean. It's just that Jean is an attractive sonofabitch so of course why wouldn't he fall for him? 
> 
> The song in this chapter was written by me, and I might post a YouTube video of me singing it so you can have the full experience. ;) 
> 
> Hope you like it, and please comment! 
> 
> (God I can't wait until the road trip starts, because that's where the fluff begins! *squeal*) #authorinsidejokes

As expected, I didn’t do much when I got back. I forced myself to stop thinking about Jean and went on YouTube, Tumblr, and whatever other websites that would distract me, but during video buffering, or page loading, I would pick up my pen and doodle some part of Jean on the notepad next to my laptop. After three or four hours of this, I decided that I should at least get _some_ work done, so I pulled up Word and started typing, coming up with a history for one of the characters in the video game.   
  
I woke up late the next morning, slumped on my desk. My throat was dry and my head was aching. It was like a hangover minus the good, drunk bits before it arrived. Opening my eyes, I rubbed them against my blue sleeve. Then I sniffed--something horrible was wafting around my room, kind of like coffee and eggs and some ketchup all mixed together. It was horrid. I shuffled out of my chair and peeked out my door at the modest kitchen. Nothing burning there. The sofa looked normal--there wasn’t anything staining it. I walked to the bathroom and brushed my teeth, but the smell remained. I looked at the mirror above the sink, noticing myself for the first time.   
  
Oh.  
  
The smell was me. I hadn’t showered in twenty-four hours. Disgusted with myself, I quickly stripped and stood under a nice, warm, morning shower. After I toweled off, I walked vaguely in the direction of the kitchen and found the BLT uneaten, and one cup of cold coffee still left. I picked them up and went back to my room, snatching my laptop off the desk. I had a meeting today at the office, discussing some points with some of the game’s other writers. I looked at the dolphin clock on my wall. Its hands pointed at the 10 and the 8.   
  
It didn’t look like 8:50 to me, so it must’ve been 10:40. My meeting was at 11, about 20 blocks from here, and I only had my bike.   
 Crappitycrapcrapcakes.  
  
I dashed out of the apartment, shut the door and ran for my bike, which was locked to a rack at the front of the building. I dropped all my things in the basket, dialed the combination, and hopped on, pedaling as fast as I could to the office.   
  
I reached the gleaming glass building a few minutes before I was due, and heaved a sigh of relief. I grabbed the bike basket, which was an actual flower basket I’d attached to the front, because I was way too lazy to take everything individually. I stepped through the sliding doors and entered the reception room. A new girl, one I hadn’t seen before, was manning the front desk.   
  
“Hi, can I help you?” She waved me over and I glanced at her name tag. “Petra”, it said, in bold white text. I opened my mouth to reply, but she interrupted me, a look of pride in her eyes.  
  
“Oh, wait! You must be the pizza guy!” I stared at her, confused and a bit annoyed. I was going to miss my meeting!   
  
“Excuse me?” I stepped to the left, trying to get to the lifts before she could say more. Petra gestured at my shirt and I looked down, not comprehending. Then I got it. I was wearing my “Pizza John” shirt, the one splattered with John _Green’s_ face.  
  
“Oh, this? It’s not--”  
  
“You can deliver it to the fifteenth floor. Go left and the elevators are right there, I’ll press the button for you,” Petra said, leaving the counter. I just stared after her, slack-jawed. Who does that? Who? My shirt was clearly not a real pizza-delivery shirt.   
  
You could say that I was ** _Petra-fied_** by her stupidity.  
*raucous laughter, ba-dum-tss*  
  
I had no other choice but to follow her, because I was heading towards the lifts, too. Once I was situated inside, I reached into my pocket to find my own card, but it wasn’t there. Shit. I must’ve left it because I was in such a rush to leave the apartment. As Petra stuck the card into the slot, I lunged out at pressed the tenth floor. Petra stared at me, annoyed.  
  
“What are you trying to do? You’re unauthorized to go to that floor,” she reached out and double-clicked the button, dimming the button’s light.   
  
“Actually, I’m a part of the game team on the tenth floor,” I stated, equally annoyed. Who was she to assume where I fit in in this building? I whipped out my phone and dialed Pixis, the team lead. He picked up on the third ring.  
  
“Yo, Pixis, this girl, Petra, she’s not letting me up to the tenth floor. Talk to her,” I said, handing the phone over. After a few minutes of muttering back and forth, Petra handed the cell back to me, blushing slightly.  
  
“Sorry,” she whispered, before pressing the tenth floor for me. Then, she retreated. I slid up the building in a metal box, unwrapping my BLT and munching on it.  
  
The meeting was just the usual--whether the character backgrounds synced up with the game’s lore, whether it was reasonable for Lina to have fire hands when fire was supposed to be a rare sight. We talked a bit, argued, and I sipped my gross, cold coffee.   
  
I went to The Late Owl afterwards, excited to see Jean again. Stepping into my safe haven, I looked around and realized that Jean wasn’t here yet. Though another familiar face was leaning against the wall, staring at a Kindle.  
  
I trotted over to Mikasa, sliding onto the purple beanbag I’d been on last time.   
  
“Hey, Mika,” I gave her a one-handed wave as I put my laptop down onto the table, settling into the cafe’s atmosphere. I didn’t exactly like her, but I didn’t have to be a dick. And there was no need to be jealous, I suppose, but my heart still prickled with a bit of envy.   
  
“Hi there, Marco,” she smiled, her voice shining like fairy lights. “Jean is _actually_ performing today. He’s getting ready backstage. Thank you for encouraging him. He told me about you--apparently you two are super similar. Double the fun!” Mika grinned, crossing her arms. She sounded one-hundred-percent genuine, so with statements like this, I found it really hard not to like her.  
  
“His parents are giving him a deadline to make it big, or he’ll have to go back to law school. Can you see him in a wig, with a gavel in his hand? I can’t,” she half-smirked, and I did, too. Jean, with his tanned skin, wearing a mismatching gross white wig? Jean in robes? I almost laughed out loud. Then a thought wandered through my neurons, and I had to ask Mika something.  
  
“Are you a singer, too?” Her tinkly voice and singer-songwriter boyfriend kind of gave it away, but I wanted to hear it from her. Assuming was never the answer--see what it got Petra in today.   
  
“Yeah, I am. I actually met Jean at this karaoke place one night. I wanted to sing, but I came alone, so they wouldn’t let me rent a whole room to myself. But Jean’s group of friends had an open spot so I joined them. We sang really well together--we did this duet of “You’ll Be In My Heart” and it was incredible. And then we sort of hung around each other for awhile until we agreed to call ourselves a couple and this is the most I’m ever going to divulge on my life.”  
  
I sat there, hit full in the face with the long paragraph.   
  
“Right,” I said, stunned. This girl was so...unpredictable. First quiet, then bookish, then chatty, then gossipy, and who knew what else? She was probably a monster-killing badass in her spare time.   
  
Then a tapped mic caused the room to fall silent. The 8tracks playlist stopped. You could have heard a button drop. I whipped my head towards the stage, a modest two foot high flat space. It was empty except for a stool and mic. Jean sat on the chair kind of shaky-like. I had a feeling that if he had been standing instead of sitting, he would’ve fallen over before he the song even started.   
  
“Um. Hi, everyone,” Jean’s shaky, slightly accented voice poured out of the speakers. Every little tremble could be heard--no wonder Jean looked the way he did: scared.   
  
“I’m Jean Kirschtein, and because I’m bad at talking I’m gonna start singing. And you can ignore me if you want, and stuff,” he muttered into the mic. Some people giggled, or laughed. Jean blushed the colour of cherry blossoms, and I thought how I’d like to make him blush like that every day. Then I slapped myself for crushing on someone who was already taken.  
  
 _Nothing good can come out of this_ , I thought.  
  
Jean wriggled around on his chair and placed his fingers on the sleek, chocolate-coloured guitar, preparing himself.   
  
And then he opened his mouth and started singing.   
  
_“do you see across the pond?_  
 _under the willow tree?_  
 _that’s where yesterday I stashed_  
 _my dreams_  
  
 _but it’s awfully hard to get there_  
 _when my father’s gone fishing and_  
 _the boat’s at sea,”_   
  
His voice keened high and crooned out bass tones and he looked lost in song. Jean’s eyes were closed, and he strummed the guitar like it was a part of him, instinctive. He didn’t need to think. This song was him, at the rawest point.   
  
_“so do you mind building a ship with me?_  
 _after we cross the rippling pond_  
 _and battle the curling breeze,_  
 _after we find my dreams,_  
 _under the willow tree.”_  
  
Jean was so into his music that he wasn’t staring into the crowd at all--he wasn’t looking at anyone, not even me or Mikasa.   
  
_“we could sail into the sun, sky,_  
 _and sea,_  
  
 _you and me_  
 _you and me_  
  
 _we could sail into the sun, sky,_  
 _and sea,_  
  
 _together,_  
 _you and me.”_  
  
The room was silent. It was not because he was bad, because he definitely wasn’t. It was because they were awestruck. A brave soul started clapping, and suddenly the whole room erupted with slap-slap noises.   
  
You and me, Jean, you and me. I smiled, mesmerized by his talent, then out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight a red scarf. Oh. Mika, right. He was already being loved by someone else. He was already _in_ love with someone else. I swallowed back the painful realization, and for some reason my heart hurt a lot, a lot more than before, even though I’d already known this.   
  
“Oh, um, by the way, that was a song written by me, Jean, and um, it’s called _February Three_ ,” he said into the mic, scrunching his two-tone hair in nervousness. Then he scuttled back behind the stage like a crab, blushing and almost knocking over the chair.   
  
I realized why my heart hurt so bad--it was because I completely, seriously, and utterly falling for this dork of a guy, who already had a gorgeous girlfriend and was most probably straight.   
  
Fuck my life. 


	4. creep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: happy Jean, confused Jean, and vision spheres. (Also, a weird pairing).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note, I probably won't be updating this story as fast as my holiday ends tomorrow. :(
> 
> Also, what a long chapter. Holy crap, my fingers hurt.
> 
> Edited, how embarrassing, there were so many mistakes. -_-'

“Holy shit, holy shit, I did it! Guys, I did it!” Jean fast-walked over to the table, a big no-holding-back grin on his face. He looked ready to jump up and down, he was so excited. I patted the beanbag next to mine and he collapsed into it, like always, not looking where he fell, just hoping and trusting that something would catch him.  
  
“Spill,” I smiled, waiting to hear his thought process right now. Mika had turned her head towards us and was clapping her hands, mouthing “I love you” across the tiny coffee table. Before Jean said a word, he noticed and pulled Mika into a hug, kissing her deeply. It was gross to watch. Then he said: “Come sit here, it’s more comfortable,” as he patted his lap. I couldn’t do anything but stare as Mikasa changed spots, playfully slapping his hands away as he tried to help her.  
  
“Ow, that hurt!” Jean cried, flapping his bright red right hand, which Mika had casually swatted away.  
  
“Teaches you to mess with your girlfriend,” Mika said, tugging at his injured hand, bringing it to her lips. Jean looked dopey, sitting there after performing onstage, getting loved by his girlfriend. I wanted to kiss him better. Instead, I stared straight at my laptop, clicking at the word document, trying to do something productive while they flirted. A hand poked my side, I flinched, quickly turning around to see who it was.  
  
“You alright, Marco?” Jean tilted his head questioningly as I hugged myself. Poking brought back bad memories.  
  
“Y-yeah. I-I’m fine,” I stuttered, hoping that he would _and_ wouldn’t ask. He looked away, out the windows, and I breathed an inward sigh of relief, secretly feeling bits of disappointment soak my bones.  
  
“So? Spill,” I repeated, wanting to know, to understand Jean. He sat content, Mika balanced on his lap with her phone out, dialing a number.  
  
“It’s the first time since middle school that I’ve performed in front of people I don’t know,” Jean started. He couldn’t keep the grin off his face.  
  
“That’s awesome! And what about the song?” My fingers had paused above the keyboard, willing Jean to continue.  
  
“Oh, yeah, I like to tell stories through songs, I guess. It’s just poetry that I’ve converted into tunes and melodies.”  
  
“So your religion is music, then? Converting poetry to the melody side--wow, that’s a talent.” I snapped my fingers and made them into mini-guns, aiming at him.  
  
“Yeah, I guess it is,” Jean said. I cocked the pistol and pretend-shot him. Surprisingly, Jean clutched his right side (again!) and leaned his face into Mikasa’s back.  
  
“Why’d...you...do...” And then Jean jerked, lolling his head. I couldn’t believe it. I’d found someone my age who was willing to play-fight with me. Mika was still on the phone, muttering something to a “Connie” and a “Bert” to come over for Jean’s second performance.  
  
“You have a second performance?” I questioned, and Jean’s head raised slightly.    
  
“Yeah, in about fifteen minutes,” he replied, voice croaky and hoarse in “pain”.  
  
If Mika was inviting friends over, why shouldn’t I? I slid my phone out of its pocket and rang up my two acquaintances, Armin and Eren. Both of them had been new to town, too, so we’d started hanging out together in an effort to appear less lost.  
  
“Hey, Marco,” Armin replied, sounding slightly flustered. “What’s up?”  
  
“D’ya wanna come over to The Late Owl? Some of my other friends are here, and one of them is performing live--”  
  
“Yes,” Armin interrupted, sounding certain. “Wouldn’t wanna pass up a chance to hang out, yeah?” I could _hear_ the smile in his voice, it was so tangible.  
  
“Yeah, of course. Can you invite Eren, too?”  
  
“Sure,” Armin replied, cool-headed once again. I clicked off the conversation.  
  
“Thank you for pushing me to perform,” Jean said, and I turned. He held out a hand for a grateful shake, and I complied, even though I wanted to hug him instead. _Shut up,_ I told my brain. _SHUT UP._  
  
“No problem--people are so unsure of themselves a lot of the time, they don’t know how incredible they are, and then they’ve wasted their life pining after a dream they’ll never do anything about.” I replied, my voice unwavering. It was something I was certain of, one of the only things I was certain of. People needed to know they were great.  
  
God knows I’d needed to know it.  
  
Jean stared at me strangely, after that little speech. Suddenly, the door of the cafe burst open and in jumped two guys. Well, one of them jumped. The other kind of shuffled in. Their difference in height was startling--the almost-bald guy, the one that jumped in, was maybe two heads shorter than the other, sweating man.  
  
“I am Connie Springer, and now that the dance master is here, the party can start!” Connie did a sassy disco walk near the doorway as he searched for us. The other guy, who must’ve been Bert, had already shuffled over to the group.  
  
“Hi,” he muttered, sweat gleaming on his forehead. Bert promptly took a seat on the chair closest to him, clamming up before anyone could reply.  
  
Meanwhile, Connie’s antics had distracted Sasha from her dessert prototypes, at least for the moment.  
  
“What the hell are you do--” was all Sasha had time to cry out, because Connie grabbed her arms and slid her low to the floor. I could almost imagine a rose stuck in Connie’s mouth.  
  
“Who might this gorgeous lady be?” Connie said, trying to put on a sexy voice. Everyone could hear him, even on the other side of the room. Before Sasha could answer, he twirled her up towards him, helping her re-balance. I looked around at Jean, Mika, and Bert. All looked equally dumbstruck.  
  
“I’m the owner of this establishment, and don’t fucking touch me again unless you want to get kicked out.” Sasha turned and sashayed back to the counter, picking up the remainder of the prototype ice cream on the way. Connie’s eyes had located our group by now. He looked abashed, his starting confidence all gone. We were all snickering at his way of “wooing” a woman. Trying to stop a true laugh escaping our lips lest we die today of the giggles. Mika looked the happiest I’d ever seen her, still wrapped in Jean’s arms, snorting at her stupid-ass friend. I couldn’t hate her--not at all. She wasn’t a bad person at all, and she made Jean happy. God, this was hard.  
  
Halfway towards us, Connie stopped as Sasha called something out from behind the counter.  
“Coffee for a Mr. Springer!” The almost-bald guy looked around, confused. He hadn’t ordered anything, and everyone knew it. Sasha was giving him a second chance. I guess his wooing skills were enough, after all. Connie’s eyes still betrayed confusion, and I think I saw him open his mouth to say, “No, I didn’t order anything, you must be mistaken,” before he got it. His head snapped towards the awaiting counter, grinning.  
  
“Two sugars, please,” Connie called out.  
  
“You put in your own goddamned sugar,” Sasha hollered back. I could hear a beam in her voice.  
  
And then Reiner walked over, notebook in hand, hair as fluffy as ever.  
  
“What would you like to order, guys?” Reiner pulled out a pen, waiting patiently for our requests. His talking sounded stiff, rehearsed. I guess this was what Sasha had been talking about.  
  
“Earl Grey for me, please,” Mika said. Jean ordered English Breakfast Tea. I got a latte, and Bert--he just stammered as he looked up at Reiner. And Reiner stared down at Bert, a slightly shocked look in his eyes. This kept going for _forever_ as Connie talked up Sasha at the front of the cafe. Was everyone getting wooed tonight?  
  
Apparently so. With a smoothness not one of us--not even Mika and Jean, who were his friends--could predict or comprehend, Bert said quietly, his face licked by a fire-red blush,  
  
“Can I order you for tonight?” We all stared at him, not understanding. Mika, Jean, and I shared a look.  
  
 _What the hell?_   Jean’s golden eyes gleamed in surprise.  
 _Did he just--_ My own chocolate ones questioned.  
 _I think he did,_ Mika’s steel grey vision spheres replied.  
  
“O-oh,” Reiner choked out, his voice deeper than before. Bert looked like he was collapsing on himself, trying to curl up in a fetal position on his stool. He still sat a good head higher than all of us.  
  
“Um, ig-ignore what I j-just said,” Bert cried, crushing his fists into his face. Reiner tapped his arm and Bert raised his head, eyes averted from Reiner’s face. Reiner whispered something into Bert’s ear and he nodded, blushing deeper than before, if that was possible. Both of them got out of their seats, rushing hastily towards the door. Reiner dropped off the notepad at the counter, mouthing something at one of the other waiters, and then the pair left.  
  
“Fuckin’ hell,” Jean muttered, rubbing his eyes. I couldn’t believe what I’d just seen, either. Bert looked like a shaky mess, but I guess he had courage when it mattered.  
  
I heard the bells above the door tinkling, and turned around again, expecting--I don’t know, anything. An octopus in leathers on a motorcycle wouldn’t have surprised me in the least. But no, in walked a blond boy and his scowling, dark-haired companion. I stood up to wave at them.  
  
“Hey, Armin, Eren, over here,” I pointed at our table. They noticed and waved back, heading towards us. Jean’s head was still in his hands, and I heard half-broken swear words tumble out of his muffled mouth, but Mika looked up questioningly at me.  
  
“They’re my acquaintances. The blond one is Armin--he’s super smart, so don’t mess with him, and the dark-haired one is Eren. He’s always angry--he’s like the hulk, but German.”  
Mika silently messed with her red scarf, tugging on the frayed ends. She was still wearing it. In fact, I’d never seen a day go by without it hugging her pale neck.  
  
“Yo, Marco,” Eren and Armin nodded, dropping into Connie and Bert’s empty seats.  
  
“Hey, guys. This is Mika and that’s Jean, the one that looks like he’s weeping with despair,” I smirked. Jean raised his head.  
  
“I am NOT weeping with despair!” Jean paused, staring back into his hands. “OK, maybe I am. But everything’s changed, that’s why! The balance of the world has shifted.” He slumped back down, and Mika got off his lap. He didn’t even look like he’d noticed. Mika took a seat on the floor between Armin and Eren, and introduced herself. She was soon in a deep conversation about wool with Eren. Armin and I were left to stare at each other.  
  
“JEAN!” A waiter called Hannes yelled in our direction. “YOU’RE PERFORMING IN THREE MINUTES!” He even cupped his hand to his mouth to try and enhance the yelling.  
  
“Mmy fuckin’ nghod,” Jean murmured into his palm. “Ear mmproblems or ngwhat?” Then he lifted his hands, standing up. Briefly waving at Marco and Armin, Jean made his wave backstage.  
  
Armin’s blue eyes stared, almost shyly, at me. _What’s there to be shy about?_ I thought. Armin opened his lips to say something when the drinks arrived. I added some sugar and decided to stop talking. It felt nice, just chilling. Suddenly the lights onstage flashed, and Jean walked back onstage, looking more confident. He started a cover of “Creep” by Radiohead, the notes thrumming in the air, raising goosebumps on my freckly arm. Without thinking, I reached for one of the napkins on the coffee table, and pulled out a pen I always had stuffed in pockets. I stared straight at Jean, finally allowed to examine his arms and eyebrows and lips without judgement. I started sketching Jean as he roared out the bridge.  
  
 _“She's running out the door_  
 _She's running out_  
 _She runs runs runs runs..._  
 _Runs...”_  
  
His eyebrows tensed, it was like he’d written the song. He understood every emotion, and it showed. Jean strummed his guitar frantically, in time to each, “run”.  
  
At the end, every hand in the room clapped for him. There were some people yelling in joy at his choice of song, some people loving his singing. I looked down at the tissue in my hands. It was a little piece of Jean that I could keep, if I couldn’t keep anything else.  
  
Eren and Mika were still talking--they had stopped for Jean’s performance, and clapped for the him, but neither looked like they were focused outside of their own conversation. And Armin? He sat quietly, clapping politely, but I think I saw him staring at me out of the corner of my eye, eyeing me up.  
  
Hm.  
  
Jean came running back, and it was like deja vu.  
  
“Good job!” I clapped him on the back, happy. But my mind was elsewhere. Jean stared at me, thoughtful.  
  
“You know, if we’re going to be friends, I’m gonna need your number,” he said, whipping out his obscure phone, some high-tech deal most people hadn’t heard of before. I started out of my thoughts, my heart rate spiking a bit as I shakily typed in my cell phone number. I could, with his phone number, I could, I could call him whenever, and send him stupid texts, and.  
  
 _Remember, Marco, he’s taken. He’s taken. Don’t._  
  
“Thanks,” Jean said, grinning. I nodded my head happily, then excused myself from the table, saying something like, “I have to go home early--I have a meeting early tomorrow.” I started walking slowly towards my apartment, waiting. Was I right? I continued on like a snail, trudging as slowly as I could without stopping.  
  
I was right. I could hear quick, light footsteps behind me, and I knew it was Armin.  
  
“Hi,” he said, his tiny frame holding surprising strength. Armin shoved me into an alley, pushing me against the brick wall.  
  
“Hi,” I replied in an almost-growl, leaning down towards his boyish face. He reached up and grabbed at my hair, pulling me down further, sucking at my neck. I gasped as he nipped me on the throat, and I could feel a tightening in my pants. I pulled my skin away from his lips, only to wrap my arms around his waist and lick those lips open, sticking my tongue into his mint-tasting mouth.  
  
God, I wanted to do this with Jean. I wanted to rake my hands through his hair without anyone judging, I wanted to hear his moans and groans as I made him feel good. All I could think about as I made out with Armin was that I wished it was Jean instead.  
  
“Friends...with...benefits...?” I muttered as Armin licked my ear. He nodded, pressing his hand to my crotch, and I moaned softly.  
  
“My place,” Armin whispered as he tugged me out of the alley, towards his house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vision spheres. That is my tagline forever. HAHAAHA
> 
> God, I felt so uncomfortable writing the last part. :P  
> And Marco/Armin is not going to last. I don't like it. 
> 
> Ugh, sorry for it being so boring, I really want to get to the next couple of chapters because that's when things (hopefully) start getting interesting. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, leave a comment with any thoughts you have!


	5. the date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: a misleading everything.

I groaned, tangling the Spiderman sheets around my legs. Daylight was bleeding through the violet curtain, seeping through my eyelids.  
  
“Mmf, I don’t wanna wakey!” I yelled at my empty room. It was most definitely empty--Armin and I had gone our separate ways after last night’s sex. Needless to say, I arrived home _very_ late. Squishing my face and all its subsequent freckles, I tried to ignore the call of nature and the fact that my breath smelt horrible.  
  
“Alone Together” by Fall Out Boy began playing obnoxiously loudly and I groaned, the hope of sleep disappearing. I slapped both of my nightstands, groping for my phone but then remembered: I’d dumped everything in my arms onto the desk across the room when I staggered in last night, too exhausted to take a shower.  
  
“GAHHHHHHH!” I yelled into a nearby pillow, rolling ungracefully off the bed. I dragged my toes over to the desk and picked up my cell, which was surprisingly still on eighty-percent charge. The number flashing said, “DEVILISHLY HANDSOME PIRATE KIN--”, as the character limit had cut off the end. I flushed with surprise and happiness. Who else could it be but Jean?  
  
I picked up.  
  
“Hey?” I said lowly, my voice that deep, gruff, post-hot-and-bothered tone. I felt kinda embarrassed at how obvious it was that I’d gotten laid. I hoped he wouldn’t ask.  
  
“You got laid, didn’t you?” Fuck. I tried to think of an alternate answer--I didn’t really want to explain my relationship with Armin right now.  
  
“No, no. I just--I, um, I got--the flu...?” I prayed he would believe it and stop asking.  
“OK,” Jean said, although his voice sounded a bit skeptical.  
  
“Um, yeah, so why’d you call me?” I tried, redirecting his attention.  
  
“Oh, yeah, do you want to come over? Mika’s gone out, I think for the rest of the day. She didn’t tell me where,” he stopped. I could hear his frown over the line--he’d just realized. But then Jean continued, “We could get, like, pizza and watch anime or whatever. You up for that?” I stood on my carpeted floor, in only my boxers, jaw hanging open. Anime, pizza, no Mika, _and_ Jean? Too good to be true!  
  
But would it be awkward? My subconscious would probably make me try to snuggle with Jean, which could lead to a lot of red faces and half-sentences...but fuck that. The good outweighed all the stupid, pride-filled “bad” parts.  
  
“I’ll be there,” I promised. Jean gave me his address and I almost jumped up and down like a fangirl.  
  
We clicked off the line, and I went to the bathroom to perform my morning rituals. Today, though, I sang sappy love songs while showering, smiling all the way.  
  
After finishing, I grabbed my laptop, phone--all those necessities--and unlocked my bike. The world seemed literally brighter today than before: the sun was glowing hotly, when the whole of last month it had been dark and always on the brink of a storm. I guess the weather agreed with me.  
  
“Hey there,” I said to the homeless man on the corner, tossing him five bucks. He smiled, flashing me a thumbs-up. I pedaled over to Jean’s place, ringing the buzzer as soon as I stopped my bike. I was breathing fast, heart beating hard.  
  
The door opened and I took the stairs to the second floor, pausing in front of apartment 2B. I could smell hot pizza wafting through the door, inviting me in. Even without Jean, I probably would have barged in and demanded a slice--the pizza smelt heavenly to my rumbling stomach.  
  
Jean was dancing around to indie rock music when I stepped into the room--it looked about as messy as I thought it would, not that I thought a lot about Jean’s apartment or anything. You know.  
  
He strummed an air guitar, whistling along. I giggled and knocked on the inside of the door. Jean looked up, face transforming from rockstar concentration into a smile.  
  
“Hey, Marco! What anime d’ya wanna watch?” Jean gestured at me to come closer to his computer. I strode over, long legs carrying me to the coffee table in the center of the room.  
  
Behind the coffee table was a beautiful, beat-up velvety maroon sofa, and in front of the table, hanging on the wall, was a decent-sized flatscreen TV. I leaned over the computer and checked out the options. Nothing was particularly interesting until I looked at the bottom right corner.  
  
“Oh, man! Attack on Titan! It’s all over Tumblr, I’m so stoked, I haven’t watched it yet let’s watch it!” I whooped and ran to the sofa, collapsing down on the soft cushions. Jean grinned at me, plugging the computer into the TV, then joining me on the couch.  
  
There was a big introduction, lots of words, yadda-yadda, and then the show started. “Eren and Mikasa watched the Survey Corps as they rode by,” the subtitles crooned.  
  
I stared. Jean stared. What the hell? The Mikasa onscreen was wearing that same red scarf, and Eren looked as angry as he usually did in real life. I rubbed my eyes, pinching Jean’s arm and my arm, trying to assure myself it was real.  
  
“OW!” Jean jumped up out of the chair, brushing my hands away. Since he was already standing up, he ran over to the computer, pressing “next episode”. The same: people in our life were onscreen, fighting gigantic beings called “titans”. I looked over at the brand of TV hanging on the wall and yelped.  
  
It was a Titan TV.  
  
“Shit, holy damn, what the hell, oh my God,” Jean said as he skimmed every single episode. When the training scene started, I found myself face to face with a perfectly animated Sasha, munching bread that she’d stolen from the higher ranking officers. Despite the bizarreness of the situation, I couldn’t help thinking, _Yup, that’s Sasha right there. The food monster._

And then Jean and I came in, and Jean liked Mikasa’s hair?? I looked over at the real, live, in the flesh Jean and saw him blushing the colour of a cherry tomato.  
  
Jean clicked every single episode, and after we were done, we sat in silence, not breathing, not saying a word.  
  
I broke it first. “Should we call the police?” I tentatively spoke.  
  
“OH MY GODDAMN HOLY COW HORSE, THAT THERE IS AN ANIME FULL OF PEOPLE FROM REAL LIFE THAT LOOK AND ACT LIKE THE REAL PEOPLE THERE’S FUCKING YOU AND ME, AND CONNIE SPRINGER THAT BALD IDIOT, AND SASHA AND MIKA AND HOLY SHIT EREN IS MIKA’S BROTHER? WHAT THE HELL? CALL THEM UP, CALL EVERYONE WE HAVE TO TELL THEM!”  
  
I picked up my phone, dialing Armin and Eren. Jean picked up his and called his friends.  
  
I got through to Armin: “Hey, sexy, what’s going on?”  
  
“Ch-check Attack on Titan, the anime, now. NOW.” Armin did so without any complaint. “Read about the characters. Watch the anime, just do it do it do it!”  
  
I clicked off and put the phone in my pocket, waiting for his call back. For some reason, I felt very uneasy. I felt a rumbling in my bones, so I walked over to the curtain and stared out. Buildings were...broken, cracked, in the distance. Another deep rumbling shook the TV and the cutlery in the kitchen.  
  
“Marco...Marco, come here,” Jean was taking up a post on the window in his bedroom. I followed his voice and found him shaking, sliding down the white wall. I peered through the thin curtains and saw...  
  
I saw...a ten-metre tall humanoid-thing...it hadn’t any clothes, and on its head was a mop of inky black hair. Its stomach bulged over its crotch, which was completely bare. And in its hands were three humans, flailing and screaming. I watched as it stuffed the one of them, a lady wearing pearls, into its mouth.  
  
I watched as it bit down, chewing on human bones. I fell down next to Jean and started to sob. He did, too, and we hugged each other, scared. The thing, the titan--it was walking ever closer to the building were in. We weren’t going to be fast enough to escape. The anime showed us being the superheroes, but we weren’t those animated characters. We didn’t have the gear or the training or the experience.  
  
“I’m so sorry...I didn’t get the chance to tell you...” Jean shouted, brushing away his tears.  
  
“I love you!” Jean wailed as I kissed him, gently, on the lips. They tasted like salt and copper, his tears and blood from where he had bitten his lip mixing together.  
  
A hand punched through the wall, reaching out. It smashed the bed, the cupboards, and it grabbed me and Jean.  
  
“I’ve loved you since the day we met!” I screamed as the titan dragged us up, up, up, into it’s disgusting maw. I felt my phone ring in my pocket, and I squeezed my hand through the titan’s fingers to pull it out. With shaky, shaky fingers I pressed the “answer” button.    
  
“Marco, what is going on? Are you OK?” Armin was cool-headed, into strategist mode. Asking for facts and numbers.  
  
“Look out your window,” I hoarsely whispered.  
  
“Marco!” Armin cried as he noticed me in the grip of a horrendous giant.  
  
“Bye,” I muttered, throwing my phone to the ground. I turned around and hugged Jean, praying it would end quickly. He stared at me with liquid gold eyes, and I nudged his forehead.  
  
“Together...” we both whispered as we were plunged into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joke's on you! :P
> 
> Comment and critique, please! 
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	6. Sorry!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nope, not a chapter...sorry for the raised hopes (maybe).

Hey, guys, I don't know if anyone's even still interested in this story, but I just wanted to apologize for no updates. School started recently after spring break, and I've been swamped. I had two projects and now two math tests coming up soon, and I have to study! :(

I'll try to write as soon as I can, but I just wanted to let you guys know.

 -V


	7. Never Have I Ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: a repeat, a SRS BUSINESS drinking game, coming out, and an interruption.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, guys. I've put it off long enough--I'm so sorry for not updating in so long! Here's a looooong chapter (by my standards) for you guys!
> 
> I did legitimately have two tests and multiple projects, and I'm SUPER happy to say I got A's on both of the tests! Woo! 
> 
> Hope you still remember this story (I didn't--I had to re-read all that I'd written cuz I'm a dork -__-) and I really hope you guys enjoy the chapter! I will write as soon as I have the inclination and time, but for right now...my fingers ache. 
> 
> Just one or two more chapters before the road trip begins...*boyfriends*.
> 
> Comment with interesting findings in the way of typos or confusing sentences or critique, I really appreciate it.

I groaned, tangling the Spiderman sheets around my legs. Daylight was bleeding through the violet curtain, seeping through my eyelids.  
  
“Mmf, I don’t wanna wakey!” I yelled at my empty room. It was most definitely empty--Armin and I had gone our separate ways after last night’s sex. Needless to say, I arrived home _very_ late. Squishing my face and all its subsequent freckles, I tried to ignore the call of nature and the fact that my breath smelt horrible.  
  
“Alone Together” by Fall Out Boy began playing obnoxiously loudly and I groaned, the hope of sleep disappearing. I slapped both of my nightstands, groping for my phone but then remembered: I’d dumped everything in my arms onto the desk across the room when I staggered in last night, too exhausted to take a shower.  
  
“GAHHHHHHH!” I screamed into a nearby pillow, rolling ungracefully off the bed. I dragged my toes over to the desk and picked up my cell, which was surprisingly still on eighty-percent charge. The number flashing said, “DEVILISHLY HANDSOME PIRATE KIN--”, as the character limit had cut off the end. I flushed with surprise and happiness. Who else could it be but Jean?  
  
I picked up.  
  
“Hey?” I said lowly, my voice that deep, gruff, post-hot-and-bothered tone. I felt kinda embarrassed at how obvious it was that I’d gotten laid. I hoped he wouldn’t ask.  
  
“You got laid, didn’t you?” Fuck. I tried to think of an alternate answer--I didn’t really want to explain my relationship with Armin right now.  
  
“No, no. I just--I, um, I got--the flu...?” I prayed he would believe it and stop asking.  
  
“OK,” Jean said, although his voice sounded a bit skeptical.  
  
“Um, yeah, so why’d you call me?” I tried, redirecting his attention.  
  
“Oh, yeah, do you want to come over? Mika’s gone out, I think for the rest of the day. She didn’t tell me where,” he stopped. I could hear his frown over the line--he’d just realized that Mikasa wasn’t telling him everything. But then Jean continued, “We could get, like, pizza and watch anime or whatever. You up for that?” I stood on my carpeted floor, in only my boxers, jaw hanging open. Anime, pizza, no Mika, _and_ Jean? Too good to be true!  
  
But would it be awkward? My subconscious would probably make me try to snuggle with Jean, which could lead to a lot of red faces and half-sentences...but fuck that. The good outweighed all the stupid, pride-filled “bad” parts.  
  
“I’ll be there,” I promised. Jean gave me his address and I almost jumped up and down like a fangirl.  
  
We clicked off the line, and I went to the bathroom to perform my morning rituals. Today, though, I sang sappy love songs while showering, smiling all the way.  
  
After finishing, I grabbed my laptop, phone--all those necessities--and grabbed my bike. The world seemed literally brighter today than before: the sun was glowing hotly, when the whole of last month it had been dark and always on the brink of a storm. I guess the weather agreed with me.  
  
“Hey there,” I said to the homeless man on the corner, tossing him five bucks. He smiled, flashing me a thumbs-up. I pedaled over to Jean’s place, ringing the buzzer as soon as I stopped my bike. I was breathing fast, heart beating fast.  
  
The door opened and I took the stairs to the second floor, pausing in front of apartment 2B. I could smell hot pizza wafting through the door, inviting me in. Even without Jean, I probably would have barged in and demanded a slice--the pizza smelt heavenly to my rumbling stomach.  
  
Jean was dancing around to indie rock music when I stepped into the room--it looked about as messy as I thought it would, not that I thought a lot about Jean’s apartment or anything. You know.  
  
He strummed an air guitar, whistling along to "Say It, Just Say It" by The Mowgli's. I snickered and knocked on the inside of the door, waiting to be admitted. Jean looked up, face transforming from rockstar concentration into a smile, albeit a slightly tense one.  
  
“Hey, Marco! What anime d’ya wanna watch?” Jean gestured at me to come closer to his computer. I strode over, long legs carrying me to the coffee table in the center of the room. Behind the coffee table was a beautiful, beat-up velvety maroon sofa, and in front of the table, hanging on the wall, was a 50”, shiny, flatscreen TV.  
  
I pointed at it, shocked: “Where’d you get that?” Jean flinched, the easygoing smirk instantly gone from his face. He shrugged his shoulders, turning inwards, shielding himself. I was reminded of my younger self. Whenever someone mentioned my name after the incident where I’d tried to kiss James Todd, snickers would be had, “so gaaaaay” would be exchanged across the cafeteria, and a constant umbrella of shame would smother my smiles. Fourth graders can be a horrible pack of rabid children, let me tell you that.  
  
“My parents gave it to me as a good-job-you’re-in-college present, and I failed them,” Jean mumbled, still looking down. “I have three months, Marco. Three. Goddamn. Months to make it big. How? What am I gonna do, Marco?”  
  
He collapsed onto the uncarpeted floor, the laptop abandoned. I decided to join Jean, plopping down next to him.  
  
“What do you mean what are you gonna do? You’re gonna keep performing at The Late Owl, you’re gonna keep trying, and you’re gonna do just great. Someone’s bound to notice you, Jean. The Late Owl is full of artsy types!” I scooted closer to Jean, crossing my fingers, hoping he wouldn’t push me away.  
  
“I’m running out of _money_. I can’t last like this--I’ve barely got nine hundred left, and I have three months to go, and in this city? This apartment costs like, two hundred a month, and I’ve got bills to pay, and oh my God, I’m so _fucked_ , Marco,” Jean buried his head in his callused fingers, so rough from strumming guitar strings, and I couldn’t. I pulled him over and wrapped my arms around his warm, clean-smelling shirt, and I whispered, “We’ll figure it out.”  
  
I rubbed his back a few times and heard him trying to restrain his sobs, so I reminded him, over and over, that “it’s OK to cry, it’s OK to cry.” I guess we’re all children sometimes, needing reminders that not everything is against you, that it’s OK to feel hurt.  
  
A good fifteen minutes later, as Jean untangled himself from my grasp with a grateful expression (which I was so happy about), I proposed an idea.  
  
“What if you boot up an episode of your favourite anime, I prepare some of that pizza, and then we play Never Have I Ever--but because we’re dorks, we’re gonna drink soft drinks instead of actual alcohol, mmkay?”  
  
 Jean’s smile reappeared as he stood up, nodding happily. “You sure know the way to my heart, Marco. I think I’m gonna have you stick around for a while,” he said as he gave me a thumbs-up.  
  
 _I really want to stick around_ , my brain cautiously whispered. I grabbed the soda and food, not punishing myself for the thought. After all, having a great friend was a good cause to stay, wasn’t it? It’s not like I was saying I _liked_ him or anything...  
  
We gathered on the couch, fizzy drinks in our hand, buffering anime in the background.  
  
“Who starts?” I questioned, sloshing Coke around in anticipation.  
  
“I will. Never have I ever...had sex.” My eyes whipped up to Jean’s, reeling in shock. I took a sip slowly, trying not to spit it out in amusement and guilt. _Oh, God. Here I am, the dirty, dirty man who just had sex yesterday night, while Jean is a pure, saintly creature._ As I stared at his now-innocent-looking eyes, I couldn’t hold back my laughter. I managed to swallow the Coke before I started to choke on laughs that sounded like the wail of a monkey in a blender.  
  
"Are you...are you serious, dude?” I tried to restrain my snorts, but my dignity had already fallen down into the abyss--so I just continued laughing.

Jean gazed at me challengingly, daring me to judge him.  
  
“Not my fault if I’m saving myself for someone I really _love_ ,” he said smoothly. That took me by surprise--he didn’t “really love” Mikasa? It certainly looked like they were getting together quite nicely. Jean waited for my explanation, so I explained, not leaving out the gender of the person like I always did. Jean wouldn't judge.  
  
“I was, like, sixteen, or something, and there was this guy I had a crush on--he had these gorgeous sea-foam-gold-coloured eyes--and long story short, we were both at this one party held by a girl, Annie, and it was wild. His name was Tom, short for Thomas, right, and both of us got intoxicated, got stuck in a room, and it happened,” I finished, munching on the mushroom pizza slice in my hand. Jean nodded his head, seemingly unfazed, but I detected a note of surprise in his eyes. That was it, then. I was gay and he didn’t mind. If I had a penny for every time someone reacted like Jean, I would’ve been a broke-ass man.  
  
My turn. “Never have I ever...worn a bowl cut hairstyle.” Jean winced, flushed, and clumsily took a sip from his mug. I started snorting, my mind wandering to thoughts of Jean in a bowl cut, walking around in public places, trying to hide his eyes from giggling girls.  
  
“Stop. Ugh. I call the time from kindergarten to sixth grade the “Bowl Cut Years”, with slight intermissions in between. My parents thought that the hairstyle was cute. Probably as cute as a stumpy little mushroom, maybe. During seventh grade, my teenage rebellion started and I decided to take matters into my own hands. The coolest hairstyle I could think of was this undercut-thing,” Jean paused and ran his fingers over the shaved area underneath his fluffy mocha-coloured tresses. “...so I stole my dad shaver--he cuts his own hair, too--and I just spent an hour and a half messing with my hair. When I walked downstairs, my parents yelled at me, telling me I could’ve cut myself, blahblah, but during a lull in the conversation, my dad took a look at me and told me I looked good. My teenage rebellion was complete. I’ve kept the haircut to this day because it looks good, and I like it.”  
I nodded, impressed. I think I would’ve shaved myself bald if I’d followed my teenage instincts on fashion. Luckily, I was none so gutsy as Jean when it came to looks.  
  
“I like your hair now, too,” I mumbled, reaching over to give his hair what I hoped was a “friendly” ruffle. “But do you have bowl cut pictures?” I laughed as Jean rolled his eyes in fake displeasure, pulling out his phone. Ouran High School Host Club was playing in the background, but neither of us were listening. I shuffled over to Jean, finishing my glass of Sprite. He was pulling up Instagram, scrolling through old pictures. He came to a picture of a big-eyed little kid in Captain America pajamas, taken mid-dance, teeth pearly white and bowl cut puffing out of all corners of his skull.  
  
“Aw, oh my gosh, awwww,” I squeaked in a high-pitched voice, fawning over cute tiny Jean Kirschtein and his cute tiny haircut. I’d scooted so close I was basically on top of Jean. “Mmph,” Jean grumbled, turning off his phone and sticking it back into his jeans. Jean’s jeans.  
  
(That never gets old.)  
  
“I don’t want to play Never Have I Ever anymore--can’t I get to know you in a more... _personal_ way?” Jean moaned softly, and my whole body turned red. I think even my freckles grew a red tint. I elbowed him, trying to ignore how tight my pants had become in like, two seconds. Of Jean moaning.  
  
Jean glanced over and noticing how flushed I’d become, snickered.  
  
“I’m joking. JK, JK, as they say--JK is my middle name. Actually, wait--no--my _initials_ are J.K. Huh.” Jean pondered, deep in thought, as I got my body temperature back to _Mildly Flustered._  
  
“I like cuddling. And socks. And coffee. And books, and a million gazillion other things,” I said softly, attempting to answer the original question seriously. Jean snuggled closer, no doubt hearing what I’d said about cuddling. My body temperature decided to rise again, going from _Mildly Flustered_ to _Turned On._  
  
“In that case--” but before Jean could continue, the door clicked opened, and Mikasa stood there in all her five-foot-five glory, red scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. I considered the position Jean and I were in--me pressed up close to him, cherry-coloured and shamefaced, and I would’ve been suspicious of myself. But at least Mika could be safe in the fact that Jean was straight as an arrow, and he was just being nice to me.  
  
“Hey, Jean, hey Marco,” Mika said without a trace of suspicion in her eyes. In fact, upon closer inspection, it seemed like something else was bothering her. Her steel-grey vision spheres were distant and troubled, narrowed at the edges, slanting downwards. I made a note for my sketches later.  
  
“Hi, Mika,” we both replied together. I got off the couch, picking up my laptop and an extra slice of pizza. It was pretty obvious that they were going to have a Talk, and I didn’t need to be here. One look back at Jean made me realize that he didn’t know what was going on either. Why was Mika upset? Where had she been?  
  
“I’ll see you guys later, at The Late Owl, OK? Bye!” I saluted Jean and he did likewise. Picking up my sneakers and striding past Mika, who was still standing in the doorway, pre-occupied with her thoughts, I walked out of the apartment. As I bent over outside to lace up my shoes, I heard Mika starting what sounded like a well-thought-out speech.  
  
“Jean, we have some problems.”


	8. Ugh, sorry again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this isn't a chapter. I just don't want to disappoint you guys. :(

The people on AO3 are so incredibly supportive and kind, and I just wanted to make sure you weren't left out of the loop--that is, if anyone's _actually_ waiting for me to update.

I could make up excuses and say I'm swamped with homework (well, kinda), or whatever, but the truth is, I'm just really tired (woo 6 hours of sleep!). And a bit lazy. I know it's almost been ten days since I last wrote a chapter--which is kind of ridiculous--and I swear I've started a bit of the next one, but I hope you guys can (maybe?) understand. It's just winding up to the end of the school year, and that's when big projects happen--and also I'm kind of sick of classes, therefore my creative energy is not on high levels at the moment.

I know what will be happening next in the plot, though, and I will most definitely continue the story due to your interest and comments! :) The next chapter will certainly be done and up here by the end of the week at most, but I'm afraid you'll have to wait a bit more after that as I'm going on a weeklong field trip to work with endangered species! Yay! Animals!

Teaser from the very beginning of the rough draft of chapter 7:

"...sharp, angular pencil strokes to the fast beat of Tycho’s Awake, which was playing in the background, a song on one of the many hundreds of relaxation playlists Sasha had accumulated since the opening of The Late Owl. I concentrated on the jawlines and forearms of my original character, Cas. Bright, open eyes--rough ovals--and fluttering eyelashes, those little toothpick lines. He was smiling at the sky, content with his impossible, perfect world. Shading under his neck and on his aquiline nose, I paid precise attention to crosshatching properly. After a few minutes, I leaned back, assessing at the whole frame. It looked great--much better than when I'd started drawing a year ago. I leaned back and picked up a cup of chamomile tea, staring out the quote-filled window at passing trucks, buses, people in umbrellas and combat boots and wedding outfits, and I wondered. What was going on in these peoples’ lives?"

Heh. IDK GUYS

By the way, I have a feeling at least a couple of you are Harry Potter fans, so if you haven't seen this yet, you should totally check it out: http://www.hogwartsishere.com/

*EDIT: Yeah I'm a horrible, massive douchenozzle and I have not updated. Oh, God, I don't think anyone's reading this anymore anyway, so I will speak to the dust hanging over this story: I am stupid. I really hate breaking promises, but the big procrastinator in me decided to waste my afternoon watching Crash Course and semi-doing homework, so I ended up with 40 minutes to finish the chapter. I want to say that I have _actually_ worked on the next chapter though, and am about halfway through. There are 1,159 words right now. Like I said before, I'll be going on a one week trip and I will update when I get back. Updates are always sporadic anyway. I have to wake up at 5 AM tomorrow, so that should be fun. 

Bye! See you (dust) when I get back,

-V


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